


After The Fall

by MJ (mjr91)



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Post-Cyprus Agency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:44:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjr91/pseuds/MJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes people have your back.  Sometimes they're your friends.  And sometimes people become friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Cyprus Agency. Just a tag scene for a couple of hours later.

There is a message for Raymond Reddington on the Nick's Pizza line. Dembe gives him the phone when he gets in the car, as Mr. Kaplan, her own car parked a reasonable distance away to avoid the appearance of connection, does her job in Fowler's house. "Take me to Agent Keen's house," he directs. He has been there before, but not by her request. Now, her words do not specifically tell him to come, but the imploring tone resonating between sniffles tells him to do just that.

Donald Ressler's phone, on the other hand, is by his side as he reads the evening newspaper and drinks an after-work beer, and he answers it. He has unburdened himself to his partner now, working through his issues with his once-and-possibly-future fiancée with Liz Keen, and the sharing of traumatic confidences between partners is only to be expected. "You don't know where he went? Look, I'm coming over."

As is only to be expected, they arrive at her home at the same time. 

"Ressler? What are you doing here?"

"She called me. What the hell are you doing here?"

"The same. She left me a message while I was out. She may have called you immediately after, just to be able to talk to someone."

Donald Ressler is not stupid, no matter what some people make of him. He spent four years in college studying accounting, has credits towards his master's. His scholarship may have been for football, but he was no dumb jock – his dean's list grades proved that. He is no psychologist, cannot fathom Reddington, but he is a reasonably intelligent and aware human being, apparently far more of one than one Tom Keen. Ressler nods at Reddington, waves a hand slightly as if to say, "after you." They both work with Elizabeth Keen, are both, in one way or another, her partner. He cannot object that Reddington has no right to be there, and he knows it.

Once the doorbell has rung, Lizzie Keen raises her eyebrows, surprised, to find both men there. Reddington is holding a bottle – he had asked Dembe to stop at a liquor store on the way in; he knows the power of alcohol, the value of a stiff drink of decent whisky to calm emotional pain, and both he and she have that at the moment. He is too much a gentleman to disclose his own hurt, the one that Diane Fowler rubbed in his face before he shot her. A young woman, one he values, one he genuinely likes, one he has sworn to protect, is hurting over a man who has abandoned her, while his own family has been – no, best not to think of what happened – for over twenty years. Her hurt is more raw, more in need of attention.

Ressler acknowledges the bottle that their hostess takes from Reddington as he sheds his sports jacket – he had changed after work, is in a plaid button-down shirt and jeans. "Talisker, huh?"

"I find, Donald," Reddington replies as his own coat is shrugged off, "that the better the whisky, the faster the anesthesia. She's certainly earned it."

They find themselves herded into the living room and onto the Ikea couch, while Keen produces three glasses and a bowl with ice from her ice dispenser to go with the bottle. Reddington expects her to take the chair, the one she sat in when she asked if he'd brought her anything from his time away after the Anslo Garrick incident, but surprisingly she lowers herself to the carpet. Ressler follows suit; Reddington, interested in observing this new dynamic between the other two, pours for everyone, but keeps his seat.

"Lizzie," he asks quietly, handing Ressler a glass with three fingers of Scotch and three ice cubes, "can you tell us what happened? Exactly? We know he left."

"I –" She chokes back a sniffle, looks around for tissues. Reddington spies a box of them on the side table, hands them down to Ressler, who is closer to him. "You told me… if there really was any doubt… about not adopting?" She looks at Ressler, looks at him. "I realized you were right. And I realized – there is something wrong between Tom and me. I don't know what – I don't know if it's the relationship itself, if it's him, if you're right that he really isn't who he seems to be. But it's wrong. And…" She looks at Ressler again. "That couple we talked to? About Michael Shaw? I saw Tom and me. I saw us adopting a child to make something right, when it has to be right in the first place in order to bring in a child. I told him that. Both of us may – or may not – be ready to be parents. But we're not ready to be parents together. And he left. I don't know where he is, and it's been hours."

Ressler takes a tissue from the box, hands it to her. He doesn't attempt to wipe her face, or to hold her closely; it's a friend's gesture, not a would-be lover's. The fact consoles Reddington. He knows the perils of rebound relationships. He knows the perils of getting too closely involved with a partner, at least at the wrong time. Ressler's being a gentleman, being a partner. It's the right thing to do at the right time. The man's learning – good, he's educable, and the Garrick situation has broken the stick that he'd had up his ass. Reddington pats himself on the back, silently, for making sure that Audrey was called to see Ressler. Love, or the possibility of it, has been good for him. "That's a lousy thing to do," Ressler tells his partner.

Reddington sips at his whisky – no ice, thank you, not in Talisker. "No idea where he is?" he asks. 

"None." Keen buries her nose in another tissue, again handed over by Ressler.

"I'd ask you if you want me to have him found, but I'd then have to ask you what you want me to have done with him when he's located, and I don't think that Donald wants to know what that would be or where I'd leave the body."

"You kidding?" Ressler grunts, clearly angry himself. "I want to be with you when you find him. Right now, I'd pull the damn trigger myself. Son of a bitch."

Listening to Ressler triggers a memory. Raymond Reddington collects them the way some people collect trading cards. "Donald, that reminds me. Brussels. You were there. There was a woman who lived there; her name was Esmee. Her husband was a bit, shall we say, of a cad. She asked me if I'd locate him one night…" He is pleased to see that Keen is listening. He had hoped to distract her, and his ploy seems to be succeeding. He continues in his narrative, barely embellishing, and noting, merely in passing, that Ressler is listening more and more attentively. "Down the street, naked. Being chased by two German Shepherds and a standard poodle. It really was the damndest thing I'd ever seen."

Ressler's eyebrow is arched, his mouth open. "I saw him. I was on my way out of a bar with a couple of other agents. I saw him. You staged that? If I'd known that, I’d have bought you a drink – even if I would have had to arrest you immediately after you'd finished it." He laughs.

Reddington laughs, as well. As he'd said to Ressler in the box, nothing personal – and he'd meant it. Business is one thing; the personal is another. Saving Ressler's life was no more personal than Ressler's time chasing him in Brussels had been; this, with Elizabeth Keen – oh, this was personal, for both of them. Sometimes a team has more than two partners, and this team, this team has three. Now that Ressler's willing to understand that Reddington has no desire for revenge for Brussels, that he's perfectly happy to play at being on the same side as Ressler, and that Keen is a good agent, who's earned her stripes, perhaps they can function properly, all working together. It doesn’t hurt that Diane Fowler is dead, or that Meera Malik and he have also reached their own working agreement. And if Ressler ever discovers that Diane Fowler was why he nearly died, and why Reddington had to save his life, well, Ressler shows flickers of real loyalty to his friends and his employers. He's beginning to turn into someone that Reddington would hire personally. Raymond Reddington values loyalty. He values it deeply, rewards it generously, breathes still because he has those who show it to him. How gratifying to see that Ressler has that quality.

"See? I said you were there, and so you were." He finishes the drink. Ressler is nearly finished with his own; Keen is nursing hers, clutching to her, torn between sniffling and laughing. "Lizzie. I'm sure that one or both of us will stay as long as you need, even if you go to bed. I'm quite willing to sit up for a while to see if Tom shows his face back in this house, if Donald needs to get some sleep for work tomorrow. I can have him folded, spindled, or mutilated as desired. Are you feeling any better?"

"Yeah," she says, pulling herself together. "I'm just glad to know that someone's got my back."

"Don't worry," Ressler tells her, leaning back on his arms and stretching his back out. He can hear it crack. His knee, the now bad one, is throbbing, but the back was more annoying than the knee is. "We've got you."

Reddington smiles to himself at the plural. Yes, he's right about Ressler. Good thing. Elizabeth Keen needs to be in good hands even when Reddington can't be there. Someone has to keep her safe, for her own good if no one else's. And he has too much of his own work to do, for him to watch over her directly at all times. Ressler may just have what it takes to handle the task. 

"Agreed, Donald. I'd say we do."

Keen rises. "I'm sorry – I was in hysterics earlier, and I guess it's exhausting. I'd better get to bed." She looks at her friends. It dawns on her that this is the first time she's thought the word "friends" – but they are, aren't they? "If you do decide to sit and wait, Red, please don't shoot him in the house. I never want to scrub blood out of my carpet again."

He doesn't bother to point out that he has his own cleaner, but, true, Mr. Kaplan has had enough work for one night. Diane Fowler bled out ridiculously. "I promise to take him for a ride."

"Not without me," Ressler grumbles again. "Or at least tell me where he is so I can make sure no one looks there."

Reddington smirks saucily. "I know a little cave in Rock Creek Park. It's got a lovely obstruction; no one knows it's there. Fortunately."

"I don't care who you bury there," Ressler mutters. "If he's in it too, I'll never tell anyone."

Keen chuckles. "Last one out of here, turn out the lights and arm the door alarm." She exits, heading for the stairs.

Ressler nods his head at Reddington. "You staying?"

He shakes his head. "No. She'll be fine. If I don't find him, she does keep a gun beside her in bed. If she ever does shoot him, I'll take care of it as long as she remembers to call."

"You got a cleaner she can use?"

"A very good one, as a matter of fact. But you don't want details."

"No, I don't. But I could use another drink."

"Fine. Come with me, then. I'll buy. I'll have Dembe bring your car."

"Thanks, Red."

Reddington throws an arm around Ressler. "No need to thank me. It's that kind of night. Do I recall you played football in college?"

"Yeah. I was a tackle."

"A tackle! I had a former NFL tackle – I won't say who – who worked a few jobs for me. He was fascinating. Let me tell you…"

"Red," a voice calls from upstairs, "please turn out the damn lights."


End file.
